


us together for a while

by ketabat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Billy Hargrove is Alive, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Masturbation, Past Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Harrington, Seizures, Soft Billy Hargrove, Soft Steve Harrington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27256597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketabat/pseuds/ketabat
Summary: “You’re—”“Ahero,”Billy finishes off in a lazy singsong. “A survivor, a miracle, a victor, a protector,man of the fuckin’ hour.A fuckinggod.Heard it all, Stevie. Getcreative.”“Good.”Billy breathes in and his trachea clings to the gulp of air, squeezes around it so tight he feels like he’s suffocating. He exhales. Swallows. Breathes in again. “Am not.”or, the post s3 fic featuring soft and sexually frustrated!billy and protective!steve
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 17
Kudos: 327





	us together for a while

**Author's Note:**

> so remember how i said "this is the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written" about the last fic i posted? well. i lied. this is it. peak self-indulgence and the most(??) ooc thing i think ive written. :D

Steve Harrington’s pillows are silky smooth. They’re everything the pillows back at the hospital weren’t. They’re fluffy and plump and as expensive as every-damn-thing else in his house.   
  
They’re especially blissful between Billy’s legs. Downy soft against the tender skin of his inner thighs. And. Billy shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be here. Not straddling a pillow, not in Steve Harrington’s guestroom, in his house, outside the Mindfucker’s clutches, alas. He is. And he’s horny. And he hasn’t touched himself in fucking months. Can’t with the constant wrist cramps.   
  
But here he is, outside the Mindfucker’s clutches. In Steve Harrington’s house. In his guest room. Humping a pillow to get some kind of pleasure. Finally scratching the itch for release that’s been prickling at him like a fucking, thorn in his side for what seems like _years_. He’s still a hormonal teenager. Circumstances aside.  
  
His cock drags against the friction, leaking steadily into his sweats. He has to clamp his teeth down on his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth to fend off the moan clawing up his throat, letting it out as a heavy breath from his nose instead. It’s cold outside, sunlight a dim thing shining through the cleft parting his curtains. It doesn’t stop him from rucking his pants down for direct skin-on-cloth. They bunch midway down his thighs, chills raising goosebumps on his skin as he bends forward, mouth parting over the silken bedsheets, drooling as much as his dick that seems to love the direct contact, growing infinitesimally harder between his stomach and the pillow secured tight between his thighs.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispers breathily. He grapples at the sheets, holds onto them so hard he hears them rip as his hips move faster, grinding harder and gyrating in small, tight circles as the first drops of sweat build up on his brow and collect in the dips of his collarbones, the hollow of his lower back, sticking his shirt to him. It feels so good, so fucking good to _finally_ think of anything other than _everything_.   
  
A fire pulses low in his stomach, licks the insides of his veins as he rocks back and forth. The bed rocks with the force of it, springs squeaking as he jerks faster and reaches for the bottom hem of his muscle shirt to shove it into his mouth, gets it wet with saliva and bites down to stifle a cry, strangled and guttural. He’s so close, so close. Right on the cusp— his hand snakes down and cum coats the tips of his fingers before he’s reaching back, smearing it over his hole, slowing his rutting into a languid, lazy thing to draw it all out.   
  
His finger dips inside him, thick and hot and Billy’s hips arch, move back against the digit. He’s dissolving into pleasure, drowning in it. His hole clenches and his balls draw up, eyes fluttering closed as he lets that animalistic need to come go _wild_. The polyester of his undershirt falls free from his mouth on the moan he lets loose when he presses a second finger alongside the first. But. _He needs to draw it out._ He eases his fingers out of himself and opts for rubbing them slow and slick over his pucker with enough pressure to have him hazy. And.  
  
And the door falls open.  
  
“So, I’m not sure if you’re more the pepperoni type or— Jesus _Chris_ _t,”_ Steve leaves before Billy has the chance to look over his shoulder, but. It’s instant, the way Billy’s cock starts softening, the way he pulls his fingers away from himself like his asshole’s the doorway to hell or something, and sits up to cover himself with the pillow, blood buzzing hot in his ears. “I’m so sorry!” Steve sputters from the other side of the door, voice muffled by the thick mahogany. Billy wants to answer, but he’s too busy wishing the bed would open up and swallow him whole. “I—you uh. You finish what you’re doing and I’ll. I’ll be downstairs. I ordered takeout. If you’re hungry, and. Yeah. You uh. Have fun!” Steve pauses, curses himself under his breath and makes Billy bury his face in his hands. “Later.”  
  
He eventually talks himself into leaving the room. Forces himself into a change of clothes and climbs downstairs with the pillowcase clinched tightly in his fingers.   
  
Steve’s in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes at the sink as he hums some out-of-tune-but-familiar song to himself. “Ahem,” Billy clears his throat. “Where’s your laundry room?”  
  
“Don’t have one,” Steve replies casually, sparing him an over-the-shoulder glance with his back still to him. “Laundry day’s on Friday, but I got a few things I gotta take to the laundromat so you can. Throw your stuff wherever and I’ll take ‘em later today.”  
  
Billy licks his mouth, nodding, then shakes his head. “No personal laundry room in the Harrington Palace?” he goes for playful, leaning a hip on the counter to steady himself. _“Scandalous.”_  
  
Steve chuckles. “Very,” he slaps the faucet shut and pulls the kitchen towel off his shoulder to dry his hands as he turns to face Billy. “There’s lemonade in the fridge. A little sour. I _never_ get the sugar right. And uh,” he shifts, cheeks tinting pink. “Pizza’s in the microwave. Wasn’t sure if you like yours with pepperoni or pineapple so I left you some of both.”  
  
Billy nods once. “Thanks,” his hand tightens on the silk in his hand when Steve’s eyes drop to it. “About before,” he begins, not wanting to give Steve the chance to bring it up first. “Listen, I—”   
  
“It’s fine,” Steve interrupts. “Seriously. I should’ve knocked.”  
  
Billy tuts his tongue. “No. I should’ve locked the door,” he counters. “Just been a long time, y’know? And w’my hands all fucked up—”   
  
“It’s fine,” Steve repeats, seemingly equally as uncomfortable. “You don’t have to explain yourself,” he pats Billy’s arm, “Embrace your sexuality, man. We all do it.”  
  
Billy’s brain short circuits, all the apologies queuing up in his head burning down to the image of Steve on his back, fingers knuckle-deep inside him, back arched and mouth parted prettily and—  
  
“I’ll take that,” Steve holds a hand out. It takes Billy a few seconds to understand. Then he flushes hot and hands him the pillowcase with his muttered thanks.

…

Steve slides an envelope across the countertop when he finds Billy in the kitchen. “This is for you.”  
  
Billy reaches for it and turns it over a few times, looking for a clue about what’s inside. “What is it?” he asks, brow hiking up as he lifts his eyes to Steve, standing silently at the fridge. “Please tell me I’m getting paid for putting up with you.”  
  
There’s a smile in Steve’s voice when he says, “Just open it, Hargrove.”  
  
Billy rips it open with his gaze on Steve, suspicious despite the small smile on his own lips. Then he looks down at the contents of the envelope and stills. Takes a breath before putting the papers inside down. “The fuck is this?”  
  
Steve pulls a carton of orange juice out and closes the fridge. “You’re welcome, Billy. Really. No need to thank me or anything—”   
  
He’s interrupted by the sound of tearing paper. Billy continues to rip the paper to small pieces, Steve watching him confusedly with furrowed eyebrows and a gaping mouth. He uses one hand to slide the bits into the other, then just. Throws them in Steve’s face like confetti. “How about go fuck yourself?”  
  
He’s out of the kitchen before Steve has the chance to question him. Slams his bedroom door behind him hard enough to have Steve blinking himself out of shock, lips upending into a grimace before he slowly puts the carton down on the counter. He takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Fucking Hargrove.  
  
He knows by now that he should knock before going into Billy’s room but given the sound of opening and closing drawers and angry mutters, Steve’s sure Billy isn’t in a compromising position. So, he pushes the door open and steps inside. “You going to tell me what all that was about?” he asks.  
  
“Nope,” Billy pops the P, gathering everything in his drawer in his arms and dumping them into the suitcase he has open on his bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”  
  
“Billy, what—”  
  
“Get the fuck out of my room.”  
  
“Billy—”  
  
Billy snaps his head up and glares. “Get. Out. Of my room, Harrington,” he says slowly, like Steve’s slow on the uptake. “My hands may be fucked up but that won’t stop me, y’hear me? Or do you need a fuckin’ reiteration of what went down at Byers’?”  
  
Steve steps back, lips pursing tight. “What the hell is your problem, man? I was just—”   
  
“You know, you’re the one who offered your place up as a guest house. I’d have slept on the fuckin’ streets if I had’ta,” Billy abandons his packing in favor of stepping towards Steve. “At least on the streets there’s no one lordin’ it over me and makin’ me feel like a fucking– _burden_. You’re a real piece of art. Get the fuck out of my room.”  
  
“ _My_ room,” Steve snaps, jabbing at the center of his own chest. “This is _my_ room. It’s under _my_ roof and I won’t—”  
  
“Mm, spoken like a _true_ Harrington,” Billy interrupts. Fucking. Kisses the tips of his fingers like an Italian chef. “Y’know what the worst thing is? I didn’t feel unwelcome here. Was that your plan all along? All this time you were, what? Tolerating me while trying to find some other place that can put up with me? Is that it?”  
  
“What are you _talking_ _about?”_ Steve shouts. He sounds lost. “I was being _nice_. You’re the one being a jerk about it!”  
  
“Being nice?”   
  
“Unfamiliar concept to you, huh?”  
  
“You were being _nice_?” Billy echoes, laughing dryly. “Nice? You. You brought me _tickets_ _to_ _Cali_ and my mom’s _address_ to be _nice_?”   
  
Steve doesn’t see where the problem is. He feels like he’s missed something. “I—”  
  
“We’re obviously not on the same fuckin’ wavelength here, so let me paint you a quick picture, Harrington,” Billy folds his arms over his chest. “You’re ten and your mom leaves you with her abusive husband. Pretty picture, right? I’d _love_ to go sip a fresh piña colada and catch up with her,” he goes on sardonically.   
  
Realization dawns on Steve like a bucket of ice-cold water. He opens his mouth for a second. Says, “I thought—” then stops.  
  
“You thought what?” Billy replies. He doesn’t seem to want the answer. “You thought you could play middleman and I’ll kiss your feet for it?”  
  
Steve’s jaw clenches, eyes dropping to the floor. “Just thought you’d be happier. I didn’t think it through,” he finally says, timid. He sniffs, shrugging as he looks up. “Look, I know you easily stole my thunder but being nice doesn’t come hand-in-hand with being a loser. It’s still a work in progress. And being nice and dumb? A _fiasco_.”  
  
Billy tongues the inside of his cheek, glancing away. “You’re not dumb,” he mumbles. “Just not s’bright either.”  
  
Steve nods. “Can we uh,” he waves a hand in the air. “Can we forget this happened?” he looks pained. Humiliated and so guilty Billy feels _soft_ with it.   
  
“Forget _what_ happened?” he quips.  
  
Steve huffs a small nasal laugh. “Just. Unpack. I’m kinda. Late to work, so,” he points a thumb over his shoulder.   
  
“See you tonight,” Billy nods. “And Harrington?”  
  
“Huh, yeah?”  
  
“You’ve got…” Billy points at his own hair and Steve reaches for his, pulling out a small piece of paper with a suppressed smile.  
  
“Hargrove?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“I don’t hate it. You being here,” Steve gestures around them vaguely. “It used to be really quiet. So. Cut off the dramatics next time.”  
  
Billy’s quick to cover his surprise with a cooed, “Careful, Harrington. Might think you’re growing _soft_ on me.”

…

“Your parents are rollin’ in tomorrow.”  
  
Steve drops the groceries on the countertop and sighs. “Of course they are. Did they call?”  
  
Billy shrugs. “Yup. But don’t worry, I told ‘em I’m your plumber. Got hauled over the fuckin’ coals for answerin’ your phone without asking.”  
  
Steve snorts. “They’re really big on etiquette.”  
  
Billy rolls his eyes. “Don’t be _rude_. I can be polite if I want to.”  
  
“You just choose not to?” Steve gives him a look over his shoulder before hunkering down to put the vegetables in the fridge drawer.   
  
“Nah. I just never want to,” Billy corrects, grinning ear to ear as he props an elbow on the counter and his chin on his palm. “Anyway, they said they’ll be here in the morning, around ten.”  
  
“That means five,” Steve counters.  
  
“Oh? Etiquette-abiding _and_ plaster saints? Sexy,” Billy comments, drumming his fingers against his cheek.   
  
“They’re just etiquette-abiding when it’s someplace important,” Steve deflects, a little defensive. Like he didn’t just say he’s unimportant, albeit obliquely.   
  
Billy pushes himself to stand. “Aight. I’ll be in the living room. If you need anything.”  
  
He’s a shitty cook. First and last time he was allowed to stand at the stove, he burnt Mrs. Harrington’s favourite Tefal pan. _‘It’s from France, she’s gonna kill me!’_ Steve had bemoaned, pushing Billy away and _out out out_ of the kitchen.

…

Steve’s parents are home at 10 am. Steve can hear their voices permeating his sound sleep. He can hear the rolling of wheels against the wooden floorboards and his mom’s grousing about the lack of tidiness. Then en his dad says,

 _h_ _e’s showering_ and,

 _shocker that he’s up so early, our boy; a man at last_.

And his mom responds with an amiable _I’m certain he forgot his towels like he always does, going to check on him._ And. He can hear the water running in the bathroom two rooms down.

  
_Billy_. Fuck. _Fuck_. He flounders out of his mess of sheets and nearly slips on the rug beside his bed as he runs across his room and flings the door open. His mom’s heels click dully against the stairsteps as she climbs up.   
  
Steve’s in the bathroom a second later.   
  
“Hello?” Billy asks.  
  
“Billy!” Steve whispers.  
  
“Oh, wait. Rephrase. Hell- _lo_ ,” he repeats the greeting sarcastically. “Occupied, why the fuck don’t you guys have a lock on the bathroom door? Fuckin’ _hate_ rich people. You obviously have the money to but you’re just—”   
  
Steve hops behind the shower curtain the same second the door clicks open. There’s a beat of silence where Billy opens his mouth to protest but Steve’s mom speaks up before he can.  
  
“Steven, honey?”  
  
“Uh. Yeah, in here, mama,” Steve presses a finger to his lips like a plea. Billy nods, stepping back and under the spray of water to wash the lather out of his hair. Steve can see a muscle in his jaw ticking.  
  
“Oh, would you look at that? You didn’t forget your towel,” Mrs. Harrington muses. “You’re growing up so fast.”  
  
Steve takes a breath, lifting his head to look at the ceiling as Billy turns his back to him. “Yeah. Thanks. I know.”  
  
“How’s work?”  
  
“I’m kinda. Showering right now, mom,” Steve answers. “We can talk when I’m done?”  
  
“Nothing I haven’t seen before, sweetie,” Mrs. Harrington replies. Makes Billy cover his face with his hands to suppress a laugh. “Or do I need to remind you who changed your diapers when you were—”  
  
Steve groans. _“Later.”_  
  
She tuts her tongue. “I sometimes feel like manners are invariable in you children. You grow and grow but your social graces remain—”   
  
_“Mom.”_  
  
“I’m going, I’m going. Your father and I are going to visit aunt Margaret. Will you be okay?”  
  
“Seriously?” Steve mutters, not for her ears. Louder, he says, “Yeah. I’ll be just fine.”  
  
“Okay. Love you, honey.”  
  
The door clicks shut behind her and Steve lets out a breath. “Christ.”  
  
Billy laughs, his back still to Steve like he’s hiding or something and– _Oh_.   
  
Steve can’t help but look. First at the thick tissue to the right of his spine, spiderwebbed and pale, pink around the edges. Then he. Places a hand on Billy’s shoulder and Billy fights in the hold, trying to shrug him off. “Hey, show me.”  
  
“Harrington—”   
  
“I wanna see, come on.”  
  
Billy turns, tries to play it cool when he looks up at Steve with an idle sort of apathy in his eyes. “There,” he says, gesturing for his torso. “Maybe I should become some effigy in Hawkins’ Museum, if you yokels are civilized enough to have one of those. Think the pay’s good?”   
  
Steve isn’t listening. He’s lifting a hand, running it over Billy’s chest slowly, stroking through the suds clinging to his scar . First with his fingertips, brushing them unsurely over the firmed up skin, then he presses his entire hand against the cicatrice, nearly covering it from view. The spray of water on both of them is starting to go cold. Billy hates _cold_. But he. He doesn’t _feel_ it with Steve’s hand on him. “Steve,” he breathes, voice doing a one-eighty from the lazy drawl he’d just spoken with.   
  
A smouldering ache settles low in his gut, syrup thick and heavy as Steve’s hand trails lower, stopping just above his navel. He’s grown softer there. No more abs to show off. Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He looks up to search Billy’s face for any sign of discomfort. “Can I?” he shocks Billy by asking. Always so fucking _unpredictable._ “Can I touch you?”  
  
Billy swallows, unable to do anything other than nod. And. Steve finishes the path down to his cock and wraps a loose hand around it.   
  
It fetches a moan from Billy’s lips, breathless and low. He tries to wrap his hand around Steve’s to urge him on, but Steve tuts his tongue, stops him before they can come into contact and holds him around the wrist to bring his hand up and place it on his shoulder instead. Billy’s fingers dig in when Steve starts stroking him at an agonizing pace. “Good?” he whispers, gaze fixed between Billy’s legs. “This okay?” he looks up.  
  
Billy keens. “Haven’t touched myself in months, Harrington, please. Don’t tease. Be _nice_ ,” he grits out.  
  
Steve smiles. _Nicely_. Cradles the back of Billy’s head with his unoccupied hand and draws him in until Billy’s nose is pressed to his pulse point, lips catching on the rivulets of water streaking his skin. “Just gonna need you to be quiet,” he murmurs. “Can you do that?”  
  
Billy nods, nails digging through Steve’s t-shirt and carving lunettes into his skin as Steve starts working him proper. Fast and hard and, _reverent_. He tilts his head, pressing his mouth to Billy’s hair. Laughs breathlessly with matching disbelief. “Does it feel as good as a pillow, Hargrove?” he taunts.   
  
Billy chokes on a moan, shaking his head, then nodding it. Wants to pinch himself because. He’s had dreams like this. He’s woken up with cum staining his boxers and Steve’s name tucked into the dryness of his lips so many times he can’t stomach more memory-built pleasure. Wouldn’t bear waking up.  
  
Steve’s fingers clench in his hair, not tight, just. Grounding. He thumbs at Billy’s slit, back and forth until Billy grunts into his neck, biting his impatience into his skin. Steve gets the hint with a breathless _shit, okay_ and rubs the palm of his hand over Billy’s glans, tips of his fingers kneading slow at his perineum. Billy lifts his leg, hiking it up around Steve’s waist as he rocks into the circle of his fingers. Chasing _more, anything, everything._ “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, yeah, like that. Like that, plea—please. Need. Need it so. Need—”   
  
Steve nods. “I know. Hey, hey,” his fingers skitter down Billy’s hip and wrap around his thigh. “I know, I’ve got you, you need it faster? Tell me how you like it. C’mon, fuck my hand, Billy. Use me.”  
  
Billy. Doesn’t need to fuck his hand because he’s coming at the words, mouth locked open on a soundless moan as he shoots spurts of hot cum between them. Steve rubs him through it, wet and slick as he watches him fall apart with his lips puckered into something pensive and _hot_. So _fucking_ hot Billy can’t bring himself to close his eyes, keeps them open and hooded as they drink in Steve’s expression.   
  
Steve’s hand slows into stillness before falling away, the other releasing his thigh. He wipes Billy’s spunk on his boxer briefs, clearing his throat as Billy sags heavily against the shower wall, chest heaving for breath. “Thanks. I. Needed a helping hand.”  
  
Steve snorts at the obvious innuendo. “No problem,” he answers, all bashful suddenly. A fucking _wonder_. “I’ll be outside.”

…

It's harder to look at him after that. Harder to see him kneading dough without remembering his fingers around him.  
  
It’s infuriating. Even more so when Steve acts like _nothing_ _happened_ , going about his day and striking up casual conversation with Billy like it didn’t affect him one bit. It’s damaging Billy’s self-esteem. He’s always prided himself on his sex appeal and Steve’s just. _Coping_.  
  
Billy can’t _cope_. He’s learnt to lock his door now, when he wants to hump the mattress and think about Steve’s eyes on him as he crumbled to pieces under his ministrations. He’s learnt to bite his pillow to muffle his moans late at night because Steve’s on the other side of the wall. Sometimes, when his frustration takes root in an irrational, visceral part of him, he has to bite his tongue to hold back from crying out Steve’s name. To have the wall soak it up and let it drip through the other side, bleed Billy’s fucked out voice into Steve’s ears.  
  
He still wonders what Steve would do. If he’d knock on his door and order Billy to _open up_ with the same authoritative tone he uses when he tells him to stop clogging up the bathtub drain with his hair. He wonders if Steve would push him back on the bed once Billy opens for him, if he’d crawl atop him and tell him to _be good_ and _quiet_ for him, ask him if he needs a _hand_ , a _mouth_. Other times, he wonders what Steve would do if Billy refuses to open the door. If he’d slump down on the other side of it and talk him through it. If he’d touch himself too and—  
  
“You okay?”  
  
Billy’s sexually frustrated. Steve had flicked a switch last week and it’s _killing_ him. Turning him into a fucking, sex-crazed, _horndog_ or something.  
  
“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, just thinking.”  
  
“Doc Owens called,” Steve states. “Said you blew him off today.”  
  
“Yeah. I dunno, Harrington,” Billy kisses his teeth with a lazy shrug. “Those therapy sessions just aren’t workin’ for me anymore. I’m feelin’ just fine, actually.”  
  
Steve sits down on the table in front of the couch Billy’s sagged into, knees spread and posture lazy. “You high?”  
  
“Nope,” Billy replies.  
  
Max comes into the living room and plops down next to him, reaching for the remote control. She’s made herself at home, just like her brother when he first arrived, Steve notes.   
  
His eyes go back to Billy, hardening. “Try again.”  
  
“I’m not high,” Billy states. “Want me to recite the ten commandments to prove it to you or something?”  
  
Steve’s eyes squint skeptically. “You know the ten commandments? Didn’t take you for a practitioner,” he says after a moment.   
  
Billy chuckles. “Oh no, baby. I infringe them to secure my place in hell,” he licks his upper row of teeth, delighting in the way Steve’s eyes dip to his mouth before he averts his gaze.  
  
“Anyway, I saw Stacy,” Steve says, clearing the rasp out of his voice with a small cough. “Remember uh. Stacy…” he trails off, trying to recall her last name.   
  
“Monroe?” Billy offers.  
  
Steve snaps his fingers and points at him. “Monroe,” he echoes. “She gave me her number. Told me to give it to you.”  
  
Billy reaches for the slip of paper. “Oh.”  
  
“She’s always had the hots for you,” Steve shrugs. “Told her no promises though. Not sure if you’re up on the market yet,” he clicks his tongue with dorky fingerguns.  
  
“For a girl? He never will be,” Max states from beside him, eyes fixed on the TV.  
  
Steve looks to her and so does Billy. “The fuck’s _that_ supposed to mean?” he spits.  
  
“Uhh…you’re gay?” Max looks at him weirdly, brows drawn together. “Or did you forget why we came to Hawkins in the first place?”  
  
Steve tilts his head, looking amusedly between the two of them.  
  
“The fuck, Maxine?”  
  
“You still in a post-Starcourt amnesiac state, _William_?”  
  
Steve blinks, surprised. “William?” he laughs out. “Your name’s _William_?” his voice drowns in Billy’s hissed, _“Don’t call me that.”_  
  
“Oh my god, you had a guy’s _dick_ down your _throat_!” Max shouts out, flailing her arms. “If _that_ isn’t gay, I don’t know what is.”  
  
“Bullshit!” Billy shouts back. Then deflates. “At least the deepthroating part is. Wait, now how does sucking dick _one_ time make me gay? Remember the time I cooked dinner because Neil and Susan were outta town? That make me a fuckin’ _chef_?”  
  
“Being a chef requires _skill_. I got food poisoning from your ‘dinner’,” Max makes air-quotes on the last word. “Stayed in the bathroom for _hours_ , remember,” she looks back to the TV, shrugging a shoulder. “But whatever floats your boat, Billy.”  
  
Steve puckers his lips awkwardly, distracting himself by twisting a lint on his jeans between the pads of his fingers.  
  
“Your little gay boat,” Max mutters on a breath.  
  
“Right, that’s it,” Billy lifts a hand and smacks her upside the head. “Get out.”  
  
Max huffs, ducking out of the impact of his hand and pushing him away. “No. It’s Steve’s house and he let me stay.”  
  
Billy looks to Steve, cheeks flushed. Finds him biting on a laugh. “Can you tell her to leave?”  
  
“Nope,” Steve shakes his head, “the rest are coming too. Sorry, man. My house is theirs.”  
  
“Not the fucklets,” Billy groans. “Tell Will to ask his Quasimodo lookin’ brother to get me some weed, I’m dyin’ here.”  
  
Max clears her throat. “Billy, um.”  
  
“Will left town,” Steve beats Max to it.   
  
“What?” Billy’s brows hike up. “When? Lemme guess, the world found out he’s queer and he’s gone to hide in another closet?”  
  
Steve tuts his tongue. “Not cool, man,” then, “Mrs. Byers decided they should start over. New Mexico. Took El with her too.”  
  
Billy shifts, trying to keep his sloping smile in place. “Chief Fatso was okay w’that?”  
  
Steve looks to Max briefly. Nods his head at her like they’re taking turns to drop bomb after bomb on her brother.  
  
“And Jim Hopper died. When they were trying to close the gate.”  
  
Billy nods, keeps his head hung and breathes out his nose. “F’course he did,” he chuckles. He swallows, jaw throbbing before he rests his head back. “The good ones always do,” he laughs at the ceiling. “The good ones always do,” he repeats, a little shakier, a little more amused, a fake amusement that sticks in his throat like the pills he’s stocking his body with. “And the rotten ones survive. It’s pretty fucked up, huh?”   
  
He laughs so he doesn't cry.  
  
Spots movement in his periphery. Max gets up and leaves the room with a half-assed excuse. Leaves Steve to Billy and Billy to Steve and. “You’re not rotten.”  
  
“You’re so full of shit, Harrington,” Billy tuts. He keeps his head tipped up like gravity will stow away the tears building up in his ducts. “Go become a therapist or some shit. Get money to belch out a load’a crap.”  
  
“You’re—”  
  
“A hero,” Billy finishes off in a lazy singsong. “A survivor, a miracle, a victor, a protector, _man of the fuckin’ hour_. A fucking _god_. Heard it all, Stevie. Get _creative_.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Billy breathes in and his trachea clings to the gulp of air, squeezes around it so tight he feels like he’s suffocating. He exhales. Swallows. Breathes in again. “Am not.”  
  
“Are too,” Steve quips, playful despite everything. “You can keep up that hard, snarky front of yours but if you want my opinion—”  
  
“I don’t,” Billy hurries to insert. “I don’t want your opinion.”  
  
“Tough shit. I don’t think you would’ve faced up to the Mindflayer if you were as rotten as you think you are,” Steve leans forward and puts a hand on Billy’s knee, squeezing gently. He sits back. “You gonna call her?”  
  
It’s a deadlock. Steve doesn’t want to finish the conversation and Billy doesn’t feel up to it either. He shrugs. “Maybe. I dunno.”  
  
“It could help.”  
  
“Watching some trashy movie in the drive-through and having some bitch tell me how heroic I was for saving the late chief’s daughter from the _big_ _bad_ fires?” Billy suggests, caustic as all hell.  
  
“No. I uh. Heard sex helps—”  
  
“Fuckin’ _god_ , I don’t wanna hear this.”  
  
“Seriously, man. PVI. It helps with self-esteem. And it reduces stress. The doc said that. And like. You can’t lift anymore and you _are_ a whore, so, win-win,” Steve shrugs. “I mean, it’s pretty good for the immune system too. And—”  
  
“I know I told Max not to smack a tag on my sexuality but I’m not interested in meaty caverns.”  
  
Steve scrunches his face up at the _innovative_ slur for pussy. “How about a guy?”  
  
Billy turns his head to the side and peels his eyes open. “PVI stands for penis- _vagina_ intercourse, Harrington,” he murmurs. “Besides, every fag in this goddamn town is so deep in the closet, they’re gonna end up meeting mister Tumnus. Boning _him_ , probably.”  
  
Steve’s sure he should get that reference. He doesn’t. “Do you wanna,” he clears his throat and Billy prepares himself for _talk about it_ or _see someone_ _other than doc Owens_ or— “Do it again?”  
  
Billy’s ninety nine point nine percent sure he misheard. Or misunderstood. Steve can’t be— “Do you have a vagina, Steve? Is there something you wanna tell me?”  
  
“I think it has more to do with the hormones and stuff, not,” Steve mutters. “I’ll ask doctor Owens.”  
  
“If you can offer your dick as an alternative?”  
  
“Was I good?” Steve asks back, like a challenge, probably craving for a good ego-stroke. “In the shower. Was it good for you?”  
  
Billy shifts, flexes a little. His dick stirs in interest. “Mediocre.”  
  
“Did it help?” Steve questions.  
  
Billy isn’t sure if he should say yes or no. Because _yes,_ it did. It gave him some stellar jack-off material. And _no,_ it didn’t. Because the jack-offs in question are so _bitter_ now that he’s had a taste of Steve’s sweet hands on him. “I really don’t feel comfortable talkin’ about this with my sister in the next room, Harrington.”  
  
Steve nods once, like _understandable,_ his eyes lingering on Billy. His pupils are slowly guzzling the honey brown of his eyes and Billy feels. _Bare._ Like he doesn’t _have to answer_ because the _yes_ is written all over his face in bold fucking letters. “Okay,” Steve finally says, rupturing the silence. “We’ll talk tonight.”  
  
Billy swallows. “Gotta admit, Harrington,” he says as Steve stands to leave. He’s bent on having the last word. “Didn’t think you swung the wrong way.”  
  
Steve doesn’t answer. But the way he looks Billy over, slow and _enough_ , it gives Billy an inkling that maybe he doesn’t need to _talk_ to have the last word.

…

Billy would rather _die_ (again) than admit the little shits shouting and cheering downstairs bring the house to life. When Steve’s parents visited, they were quiet. He overheard Mrs. Harrington murmuring to her friend through the telephone late in the nights, talking about marital complications when he snuck down the hallway for a leak. Mr. Harrington spent all his time in his office or out with colleagues.   
  
Those were also the times where Steve was the quietest, keeping to himself in his room and sneaking into Billy’s every now and again with his meals until a business trip finally came up and his parents pulled out of town again.  
  
So, yeah. The kids’ hubbub isn’t unwelcome. Somehow, sleep finds him easier hearing them argue over comics.  
  
He wakes up a couple of minutes before midnight and slinks downstairs. The lights are on but no one’s home. Steve always leaves the lights on. He says it’s to keep thieves away, but Billy knows that’s a lie.  
  
He opens the fridge and rummages through it for something to eat, humming to fill the silence creeping up on him. A floorboard creaks somewhere upstairs and Billy plays deaf to it, hums a little louder and can feel a wave of anxiety start at the small of his back. He hates Steve’s house. It’s too big for two. Bigger for one. Steve’s parents are never home.  
  
Billy gets it now, the _‘I don’t hate it. You being here. It used to be really quiet.’_  
  
He wonders if Steve leaving the lights on is for himself as much as it is for Billy. Wonders what it was like for him after Barbara was snatched from the side of his pool. He kind of. Chases that need for fear. For anything other than dread and horniness because those two emotions are the only ones taking his life apart right now.  
  
He looks around like he’s making sure no one’s there to see, then moves closer to the drawn curtains in Steve’s living room and peeks behind them. His breath stalls. He looks around him again and reaches for the patio door to slide it open.  
  
The lights flicker on the moment he steps out. _Fucking rich people._  
  
Sitting at the side of the pool is scary. Scary in the way that makes the maelstrom flaring up just under the surface of his skin _calm._ Ease. Slow down into an eddy. He takes a breath and drains the tension in his shoulders on the exhale, eyes falling shut, feet moving back and forth in the water. The burbling sounds good. It sounds—  
  
“I leave you alone for _ten_ minutes.”  
  
–not _half_ as good as that. The amusement in Steve’s tone when he’s worried but doesn’t want to show it.   
  
“Didn’t you hear? My flair for the dramatics stems from my _need for ‘round the clock attention,”_ his hands grip the edge of the ceramic framing the pool tightly. So tight his fingers start hurting, knuckles blanching until they’re as pale as the scars sketched into them.  
  
Steve chuckles. “Get inside, Hargrove. I don’t need a second person dying in my pool.”  
  
“Someone would tell me I’m the _third.”_ Billy looks over his shoulder to Steve, to the reflection of the pool casting on his confused features. He looks good. Makes Billy wonder how good he’d look on Californian beaches. “That true, _king?”  
  
_Realization strikes Steve at the nickname, makes him click his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I didn’t _die_ in there,” he waves a hand with an eye roll. “Man, that’s so dramatic.”  
  
Billy laughs. Doesn’t say anything. Lets his laugh fade on his lips and watches Steve for some elaboration.   
  
“I just grew up.”  
  
“In this pool?”  
  
“No, uh. No,” Steve licks his mouth, glancing away briefly. “Can we. Can you come inside? We’ll talk there.”  
  
Billy follows him inside, all the way into the sitting room. Steve leans back against the armrest of the couch and Billy takes the other one so they’re facing each other, so he can take in every emotion and every shift in expression. “So.”  
  
“I was an asshole,” Steve states plainly. “Back before you came along. Before Barb.”  
  
“Before Nancy?”  
  
“Even with Nancy,” Steve parries. “I. I think I was even worse than you, Lucas aside.”  
  
“Don’t think anyone can beat my record,” Billy teases.  
  
“Trust me, I was the worst,” Steve looks away, shame coloring his cheeks and tugging at a muscle in his jaw. “I had this uh. This book? This checklist. Had the name of every girl at school. Worked my way through them.”  
  
Billy has to chew on the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh.  
  
“Man, I was so messed up,” Steve buries his face in his hands, groaning a laugh. “It stopped at Nancy. I mean, at first it was about getting in her pants but. She was different. You know? The different that makes everyone _dull,_ black and white. Lit up the room with her smile.”  
  
Yeah. Billy. Billy _knows_.   
  
“Sometimes I think she was karma,” Steve tongues at his bottom lip. “That maybe she was a lesson. And yeah she. She broke my heart. But I’m glad she did,” he breathes out. “Without her, I’d probably still be– I. I mean, I’m a mess-up sometimes but you gotta mess up,” Steve looks like he wants to bury his face in his drawn up legs. “To grow up. It's a part of the process.”  
  
Billy opens and closes his mouth. Isn’t sure how to respond. “You seriously had a checklist?”  
  
“Shut up,” Steve huffs on a laugh.  
  
Billy waits a beat, not to seem desperate. But his voice, _unreliable little bitch,_ gives him away when he says, “Room for another name?”  
  
Steve looks up, blinks twice in a row with his mouth agape. “Needy much?” he finally comes out with. Billy preens himself on wrecking his voice, on wrecking his whole put-together façade.  
  
He lifts a brow.  
  
“I dunno, Hargrove,” Steve sighs, playing dismayed. “I mean, there’s an application form you gotta fill out. Like, this _super_ big one, thumbprint and all.”  
  
Billy unfolds his legs from underneath him and Steve molts his humor like a second skin, sits up straighter.  
  
“It was good for me,” Billy says after a pulse of silence. “And you don’t. You don’t get how hard it is to be treated like. A fucking _tourist attraction_. I was mauled by the thing, turned into a human sifter, Steve. I was cut open and sewn shut and hooked to tubes and machines for the better part of a whole goddamn _year._ And I just remember wanting to die every, _fucking_ second of it, and. I know I’m not. _Normal._ Never will be. Not,” he gestures for his body vaguely. “Not up here either,” he taps a finger twice against his temple. “So, yeah. It was. Good. Not just the,” he makes a lewd jacking off motion. “All of it. It feels good to be yelled at and called out for stupid shit like mudding the carpets. Feels good not to be treated like some fragile _bitch_ about to break from the slightest fucking change in tone. You’re fucking good for me, alright?”  
  
Steve blinks at him, the bob of his throat the only sign he’s listening.   
  
“I didn’t lie when I said I’m feeling better. _You_ make me feel better. Like. I can be fucking normal in the long run,” Billy looks away, at the muted television, clenches his teeth so tight his molars grate together.   
  
Steve breathes out. It sounds like he’s been holding his breath the whole time Billy was speaking. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey, look at me.”  
  
Billy draws his eyes away from the TV to do as asked.   
  
“Did you take your meds?”  
  
“Knew Max told you,” Billy grumbles.  
  
“She worries.”  
  
“She doesn’t _have_ _to_ ,” Billy snipes back. “I’m not a _kid_.”  
  
Steve tuts. “I know, but I’m going to have to force feed you your meds if you keep acting like one.”  
  
He stands up and leaves, re-emerging a minute later with Billy’s pills and a glass of water. Billy cavils at the treatment under his breath, glaring at the smile Steve’s sporting as he tips two pills into the palm of his hand. “Open up.”  
  
“Like fuck—” Billy snatches the pills from him and throws them into his mouth, keeps his glare glacial as he takes the proffered glass of water and downs it. “There, happy?”  
  
“Nope. Open your mouth,” Steve holds Billy’s face in one hand and squeezes his cheeks to get him to do as told. He inspects the inside of his mouth, making sure he hadn’t stashed the pills in his gum to throw out later.   
  
“You’re a piece of shit,” Billy says in Steve’s grasp, voice coming out all funny.  
  
“Yeah?” Steve questions amusedly. “Well I’m a piece of shit who cares about you, so,” he lets go of Billy’s cheeks.   
  
Billy looks up at him, trying to come up with a more vulgar, profanity-loaded way to say _don’t say shit like that._ He finds himself at his wit’s end. “Told you not to grow soft on me, Harrington,” he mutters instead.  
  
“Told you being dumb and nice is a fiasco, Hargrove,” Steve says back.   
  
“You’re not being fair,” Billy sighs. There’s petulance in there that makes Steve’s brows arch. “Always playin’ your cards close to your chest. Throw me a bone, Harrington. Get a little _dicey_.”   
  
Steve shrugs. “Nothing to throw,” he replies. But he gets it. Why Billy wants him to reveal something. He wants to even the score. “Just told you about Nancy—”  
  
“I don’t care about Nancy,” Billy breaks in. “Tell me something about you that no one knows. It’s only fair.”  
  
Steve sits down on the table, legs spread and forearms resting on his thighs with his fingers intertwined. “Ok. You know those uh, those automatic sliding doors?”  
  
Billy nods, not really catching on.  
  
“I have this habit where I. I wave a hand to act like some wizard or something, just before they slide open,” Steve goes on sheepishly. “Had it for as long as I can remember so now it’s just this super embarrassing thing I can’t help but do, you know?”  
  
Billy licks his mouth to keep his laugh under control. “You’re such an idiot.”  
  
“You’re telling me you don’t have some silly habit, Hargrove?”  
  
“I can’t wear matching socks,” Billy answers. “Hate to. It shows I care enough to look for matching socks and I _don’t_ , so I have to wear them odd all the time.”  
  
“Oh my _god_ ,” Steve laughs. “Mom would hate you.”  
  
“Good thing I’m not big on her either,” Billy grins. He looks at his watch and yawns at the _1:01 AM_ winking up at him. “Tired?”  
  
Steve nods. “Exhausted.”  
  
“Go to bed, babysitter,” Billy waves him off. “Gonna watch some Magnum, P.I reruns until I pass out.”  
  
Steve stands from the table and ambles off, stopping just at the door. “And uh, hey, Billy?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“You’re good for me too,” Steve pauses. “Did you water the plants like I asked?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Why do I even bother with you anymore?”  
  
“Dunno, Steve. Why do you?”

…

There’s a girl in the kitchen the next morning. Sitting on the counter with swinging legs and a bowl of cereal in hand. “Who the fuck are you?” Billy asks.   
  
The girl looks to him. “You need serious attitude amendments, dude,” she answers, looking him over. “I’m Robin. You must be Billy.”  
  
“Yeah,” Billy replies. “Is Steve up?”  
  
Robin shrugs. “Dunno. I used my spare key to get in here.”  
  
Billy’s chest squeezes, a heat burgeoning there at the knowledge that this girl has a spare key and he doesn’t. He’s been living here for months; he _deserves_ a spare key. Who the fuck is this bitch anyway?  
  
“Morning.”  
  
“Speak of the devil!” Robin exclaims. “Ready for work?”  
  
Steve. Steve kisses her cheek. Uses it as a distraction to take her bowl from her. Billy’s _burning._ He doesn’t bother denying it to himself, that he’s fucking jealous because, who _is_ this bitch?   
  
He reminds himself he’s standing like some statue in the middle of the kitchen and forces himself to walk over to the fridge and pull out the orange juice. Glass full, he leans back against the counter opposite Robin’s and looks at her.  
  
“Uh, Steve. Your friend’s glaring at me.”  
  
Steve lifts the bowl to his mouth and drains it off milk before throwing it into the sink. “He hates everyone,” he answers casually without looking to Billy. “Don’t take it personally.”  
  
Billy’s glare hardens for just a second before he closes his eyes and downs the rest of his drink. He slams the cup down on the counter and leaves.  
  
“Did you see that?” Robin asks. “That guy was turning _green._ Freaking _shamrock_ green, Steve.”  
  
“He’s always cranky in the mornings, Rob,” Steve mutters back. “C’mon, you’re driving.”  
  
Billy lounges on the sofa, switching through TV channels as Steve pulls his jacket on and Robin stage whispers shades of green to him. “Takeout?” Steve interrupts her to ask Billy.  
  
“Something spicy,” Billy replies in a lazy murmur, eyes fixed on the TV. “Maxine will probably be at the arcade so if you see her would y’tell her to gimme a call? Something we gotta talk about.”  
  
“Sure,” Robin and Steve say at the same time.   
  
Billy’s foot bounces, trying to keep his annoyance at bay as he glares at the screen, jaw clenching tight.   
  
He hears the door open, hears Steve’s, ‘What can I help you with?’  
  
He also hears some fucking pipsqueak kid say, ‘Does Billy Hargrove live here?’  
  
Interest piqued, Billy throws his head back to look at Steve’s back. “Who’s asking?” Steve’s voice goes softer.   
  
“Is it true he has like, a hole in his chest?” a more enthusiastic pipsqueak asks, too loud and all too happy about his assumption. “Can we see? Does he have like, _powers_ and stuff?”  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters under his breath. “Get the hell outta here. Nothing to see,” he ushers the kids away and steps out after them, closing the door to deaden their grumbling protests and Robin’s _‘freaking kids’._  
  
Billy sighs heavily. _A fucking tourist attraction._ He pushes a hand up his pyjama top and runs his hand over the scar there. Keeps his head rested back, buries his nails in. It’s dead. The skin there’s dead, a cluster of numbness and _nothing_. Even his heart seems to be beating slower.

…

“I got some jalapeño burgers,” Steve closes the door with a hip flick. “Grilled chicken with strawberry barbecue sauce and a side dish of spicy pasta. Didn’t know which you’d like so I got everything,” he walks over and puts the bags down on the table. “Fucking rich people, huh? Indulge.”  
  
Billy sits up, muting the TV before throwing the remote wherever. “Thanks. I’m starving.”  
  
“Did you take your meds?”  
  
Billy sighs. “Can you let me have this?” he gestures for the food.   
  
“No,” Steve interrupts. “Do I have to shove the pills down your throat every time, Billy?”  
  
Billy grinds his teeth together, chin moving side to side as he stares blandly at his dinner, slowly losing appetite. “They’re not helping,” he eventually lets out.   
  
“They are if you’re still here,” Steve replies. When Billy hangs his head, Steve sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “Look, I. I’ll talk to Owens, ask him if we can lower your dosage, how does that sound?”  
  
Billy nods feebly.  
  
“C’mon, let’s eat,” Steve sits down next to him. “What’d you do today?”  
  
“Watered the plants,” Billy replies, forking the pasta. “Cleaned up a bit. Talked to Max. Then um. Then Lucas. Needed to patch shit up with the fucklet. Is Raven your girl?”  
  
He turns red with embarrassment, keeps poking his food with the prongs of the plastic fork until it doesn’t fit anymore corkscrew pasta.   
  
Steve bites into his burger. “Robin. Not Raven.”  
  
“Same difference.”  
  
“She’s just a friend.”  
  
Something in Billy loosens. “Ok.”  
  
“Ok,” Steve echoes. 

…

There’s a fizzing, a hiss, a crackle, a loud _bang._ Light bursts outside the window in sputters of red and yellow and—  
  
Fireworks. Outside. Right outside. Billy. Fireworks. PTSD.  
  
Steve climbs out of his bed once his mind makes the connection and grabs his robe. He ties it around the waist and plods down the stairs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He’s bare-footed, a little cold. Doesn’t really care right now.  
  
He flings the front door open and steps out. “Hey!” he yells. They’re kids. No. They’re _the_ kids. The ones from yesterday who wanted to see Billy. Fucking _cunts._ “Get the hell outta here!”  
  
One of the kids, the one with a stupid buzzcut, giggles. Like this is some _game._  
  
“I’m warning you, kid. I have Chief whats-his-face on the phone,” Steve storms down the porch and to the kid, “Gimme the firecrackers or I’ll make sure he gives your parents a call.”  
  
The kid curses under his breath but hands Steve the unlit fireworks.  
  
“If you come near my house again—”   
  
“Chill. Some dude paid us to do this.”  
  
Steve scratches at his jaw with a huff. “Get out of here. And take your shit with you,” he pushes the fireworks back at him. “I see you doing this kind of stuff again and I’m taking you to the station. Maybe a night in jail will teach you a lesson.”  
  
The kid nods, “Sorry.”  
  
Steve walks back up to his house and shuts the door behind him, pressing his back to it with a sigh and closed eyes. There’s a thump upstairs. Steve looks to the dim-lit kitchen before pushing himself off the door and lumbering over to it tiredly to get Billy a glass of water in case the little brats had woken him up.   
  
He knocks once on Billy’s door. “Hey uh, I heard noise from up here. Kids were being kids and thought it would be funny to— can I come in?” he pushes the handle down as he asks, propels the door open slowly to peek inside.   
  
And. Whatever he had to say. Crashes. Just like the glass that drops to the floor before Steve’s rushing across the room and kneeling at Billy’s side. “Fuck. _Shit._ On your side, Billy. C’mon,” he pushes on Billy’s arms, driving him onto his side. He unties his robe and pulls it off to push it under Billy’s head with shaky hands.  
  
Convulsions wrack Billy’s body, zipping through muscle and throwing his limbs into uncontrollable spasms.  
  
Steve blindly reaches for the telephone on Billy’s bedside table and pulls it down to the floor, punching Owens’ number in. It starts ringing and Steve tries calming himself by counting the rings until he picks up.  
  
Sam Owens’ voice is groggy with sleep when he answers, a small, “Doctor Owens speaking.”  
  
“Uh. It’s Steve. Harrington. Billy’s—Billy’s friend,” Steve grapples for words. “Some- Some kids started fireworks outside and Billy’s all. Shaking. A-And groaning and frothing. I put him on his side, that’s what they do in the movies a—”  
  
“Are there any sharp objects around?” Owens’ voice is considerably more sober. _“Don’t_ try holding him down. How long?”  
  
“I don’t. I don’t know. I walked in on him- I don’t know. It’s never happened before. He never mentioned being epileptic. He never—”  
  
“Calm down, son,” Sam interrupts soothingly. “Take a breath. Keep him on his side. Seizures don’t last longer than five minutes. It’s completely fine. Psychogenic seizures are in fact very common among PTSD patients. The fireworks provoked memories of July and, naturally, triggered his body that in turn reacted as it should. It’s alright.”  
  
Steve nods. “Ok,” he whispers. “Ok.”  
  
Billy’s teeth unclench on his groans, his thrashing slowing into jerking, then braking to trembles.   
  
“He’s coming down,” Steve rasps. Nearly chokes on his sigh of relief.

…

Billy’s wrapped in a towel on his bed, staring ahead with a mug of tea in hand, its underside pressed against his knee where his legs are drawn up to his chest. It’s serving as a hand-warmer more than a drink. Steve sucks at making tea. Almost as much as he does at making lemonade.  
  
“Hey,” Steve greets quietly from the door. “You okay there? Need anything before I head to bed?”  
  
Billy looks to him, a little dazed and completely burnt out. “Tuckered out,” he says hoarsely. “Thank you for,” he lifts the mug slightly. “And for helping me out.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Steve replies, smile small and crooked on his lips. “You gonna be alright?”  
  
“Can you sleep in here tonight?”  
  
Steve blinks, clearly surprised by the request. His eyes dart down the hall, and Billy shakes his head. “Never mind. You don’t have to. I don’t wanna force—”   
  
“Ok,” Steve cuts in. “But only if you stop taking things back and thinking I just do the shit I do because I’m nice or feel sorry for you.”  
  
Billy smiles into his tea. “Feel like I’m growing on you,” he says as Steve shuts the door.  
  
“Like mildew,” Steve retorts.  
  
Billy scoffs, loosening his hand on the mug when Steve reaches for it. He watches Steve set it down on the bedside table. Studies his profile with an ineffable sense of affection. Overpowering and warm. He eases down under the blanket, breathing out slowly.  
  
“Turn around,” Steve draws circles in the air with his finger.   
  
“You gonna strip?” Billy smirks, even as he does as told.  
  
“Nope,” Steve pops the P and bounces onto the mattress. “Just wanna,” he wraps an arm around Billy’s torso, “big spoon you,” and pulls him back against him.   
  
Billy laughs, sinking back against the warmth of Steve’s chest with a contented sigh. “Gotta stop,” he mumurs, tucking a hand under his pillow. “Wearing that good heart o’years on your sleeve.”  
  
“You don’t seem to mind.”  
  
Billy smiles, his other hand coming up to rest on top of Steve’s, fingers threading through his. “You’re too nice. Gonna wind up in a _ditch_ one of these days.”

…

Billy isn’t used to sleeping the whole night through. He’s not used to waking up _warm_ either. His feet are usually cold in the mornings and he has some sort of phobia of wearing socks in bed.   
  
Steve’s breath washes warm and ticklish over his neck, leg hiked up between his and arm slung over his waist like they’ve slept like this a thousand times before. And.   
  
Steve’s hard. Right there against the apex of Billy’s thigh. He shifts. “Steve?” he asks, then clears the disuse out of his voice and licks at the chaps of his lips. “Steve!”  
  
“Mmh.”  
  
“Don’t you have work?”  
  
“Mm, took th’day off,” Steve responds. “Ro’in’s a good frien.”  
  
“Ok,” Billy whispers. “Steve?”  
  
“Mmh.”  
  
“You’re hard,” Billy bites his lip to nip his laugh in the bud. “Like, you can cut glass w’that thing.”  
  
Steve shifts, then he rolls away with a mortified groan. “‘M so sorry,” he grumbles.   
  
Billy turns onto his back, drawing his lip into his mouth. “Dry spell?” he asks.  
  
“No. It’s the uh. The warmth. Haven’t slept that well in a minute,” Steve answers. Billy can see him sneak a look under the blanket from his peripheral. Shouldn’t find it as cute as he does. “I’m gonna—hop in the—”   
  
“I could help?” Billy interrupts. He turns his head to look at him. “I mean, settle the score. Return the favor?”  
  
Steve shifts, heat lapping his cheeks with red before he turns his head to meet Billy’s blues. “Don’t get me wrong… but aren’t your hands all messed up?”  
  
Billy’s eyes flitter over Steve’s face for a few seconds, then, “Yeah.”  
  
Steve keeps looking at him, holds his gaze until Billy feels like his insides are on fire. “My mouth’s just fine though.”  
  
Steve’s lips part in barely-hidden surprise. On an exhale, his poise leaves him too. He nods once. Then shakes his head. An internal dilemma. “Only if– Only if you want.”  
  
The chuckle Billy caws at that makes Steve scowl. “You have no fucking idea.”  
  
He doesn’t waste any time drawing the blanket off of them and getting between Steve’s legs. “You don’t have to,” Steve rushes out with. “Really. It wasn’t a favor. I wanted to.”  
  
Billy hooks his fingers into Steve’s waistband and pulls. “You got no idea how many times I’ve thought about this, Harrington.”  
  
Steve swallows dryly, watching the way Billy puckers his lips in a coo at his length. He lifts his eyes back to Steve and wraps his fingers around his dick. Keeps looking as he bends his head to lap up the bead of pre at his tip, open-mouthed and _obscene._ Steve thumps his head back, closing his mouth on a throaty groan.   
  
His thighs clench, struggling to stay open when Billy drags his tongue over his vein. “Steve,” Billy flicks his calf. “Look, I’m doing you a _favor_ down here. You gotta look at me.” It’s his need to be _seen_ talking. By Steve. Just him. And just Steve.  
  
Steve obliges, forcing his eyes open and lolling his head to watch Billy through drooping eyelids. Billy holds eye contact, bending his head once again to press his lips to the crown of Steve’s cock and Steve releases his lip on a gasp, fingers flying to Billy’s hair and clenching, like he’s holding back the itch to fuck his throat.   
  
Then he’s engulfed in wet heat and his head falls back, a punched out _fuck_ leaving him as he slides his other hand through Billy’s curls, nails scraping over his scalp as his hips lift. “Billy. _Billy_ _,_ please.”  
  
His insides feel overheated. Like they’re on the brink of _melting._ And Billy keeps going, cheeks hollowing, the warmth of his mouth slick and sloppy and _soft._ His hands try to find leverage on Steve’s legs but slide slippery over sweaty skin. It’s fucking _greedy,_ the way he breathes out a moan from his nose and sits up on his elbows and knees, fingers clammy on Steve’s thighs as he grapples, placing them on his shoulders.   
  
Makes Steve wonder if it’s about _him_ anymore.   
  
The bobbing of his head slows down before he’s completely pulling off, stopping at Steve’s tip, suckling it leisurely. Steve forces himself to look down, at his hard cock, glistening with saliva and cum, crowned with swollen lips.  
  
Billy twists his wrist, starts jerking him off slow but _good._ He looks _ravenous._ Eyes wild and hair unruly and— Steve uses the hold he has in his hair to coax him down his length again. Feels dizzy with the way Billy just. Goes with it. So eager to please. Just wants to be _good_ _._  
  
Billy’s nose nestles in the small hairs at the base of Steve’s dick. He takes in a breath, closes his eyes like the musky scent of him is a fucking _drug_. His hand’s down his sweats, moving slow and jerky as his throat tightens around him. Steve’s whole world stutters on its axis, back arching and legs tightening on Billy’s head as he releases down his throat, holding his head in place as he rides his orgasm out. His moans subsiding to breathless _ah ah ah_ s.  
  
Billy swallows him dry and waits for his body to go lax to release him. Steve sags into the mattress, letting go of his selfish hold on Billy’s hair. Billy comes off for air, cheeks flushed and lips red, stained with cum and spit and a smile Steve wants to taste.  
  
“C’mere,” Steve grumbles, patting at Billy’s shoulder clumsily. “Come up here.”  
  
Billy crawls up the length of his body to flop down next to him, hand down his pants, unmoving.  
  
Steve moves in closer, close enough to touch his lips to Billy’s ear. And. He just breathes. Breathes. In and out, his hand reaches down to wrap around Billy’s. In and out. Billy shuts his eyes. In and out. Just the squelching of his cock sliding slick in the tight ring of their hands and Steve’s breathing. In and out. “Look at you,” Steve finally _finally_ speaks. “You know how much I’ve been thinking about this?”  
  
Billy tilts his head, buries it in Steve’s throat and breathes in the smell of sweat and cologne and _Steve._ Steve. Just Steve. Always. Just. Him.  
  
He feels the rumble of Steve’s throat against his lips when he says, _‘Been so selfish with you, Billy_ ’.  
  
Billy clutches Steve’s arm tightly, like a fucking _lifeline,_ and grinds into their joined hands, chasing the heat of release.  
  
“Wanted you all to myself,” Steve confesses over Billy’s hitching breaths and strangled whispers for _more, feels so good_. “But you’d let me have you, won’t you?” it’s rhetorical. Steve knows how gone Billy is for him. Billy hasn’t exactly been _subtle_ about it. He’d mocked Steve for wearing his heart on his sleeve not twelve hours ago. Mocked him as if he was ever _entirely_ sewn shut. Mocked him as if Steve hasn’t been gnawing away at the thread stitched into the left side of his chest ever since Billy stepped foot into his house. “You’d let me love you, won’t you, Billy?”  
  
Billy falls apart with a sob, pleasure rippling through his body in flaming waves. His hand going lax under Steve’s even as Steve keeps stroking, shushing him in a gentle coo.   
  
He comes down slowly, breathing harsh against Steve’s neck. He laughs, ecstatic and delirious. “King Steve,” leaves him drunkenly, still high on his orgasm. “Ruinin’ me for anyone else.”  
  
Steve pulls their hands out of Billy’s pants and wipes his own on the sheets.  
  
“Waster,” Billy mutters. “Yours is all saved in here,” he pats stickily at his stomach.  
  
“You’re gross,” Steve mutters back, carding his fingers through Billy’s hair, running his nose through sweaty strands.  
  
“Been selfish too,” Billy says when the silence grows louder. _“Shamrock_ green with jealousy whenever you looked at anyone else.”  
  
“I know,” Steve leans back and Billy pulls away too so they can lay on their sides. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

Billy scoffs. “I’m a _lot_ of things, Harrington. _Cute_ isn’t one of them.”  
  
Steve hums, not really listening as he strokes his thumb over Billy’s bottom lip tenderly. “G’morning.”  
  
The playful sulk in Billy’s eyes thaws out. He’s. Not sure where any of this leaves them. Doesn’t want to ruin it by asking. Doesn’t even think he _has to_. If the way Steve’s looking at him is anything to go by, like.  
  
Like Billy makes everyone _dull. Black and white._  
  
He kisses the pad of Steve’s thumb, hand lifting to brush a lock of hair away from his face.  
  
“The best, loverboy.”

**Author's Note:**

> im on [_the_ tumblr!](https://inkedplume.tumblr.com)
> 
> (also side note: icantwritesmutforthelifeofme but itried)  
> (side note #2: the shower scene is heavily inspired by a PLL scene, guilty as charged)


End file.
